


With The Keys To The Cage

by OrianDCate



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, Sherlock Holmes - Arthur Conan Doyle, Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Demons, Alternate Universe - Human, Canon Divergence - The Reichenbach Fall, Crossroads Deals & Demons, Demon Deals, Demon Sherlock Holmes, Demons, Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, F/M, Post-Episode: s02e03 The Reichenbach Fall, Post-Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-22
Updated: 2020-09-23
Packaged: 2021-03-07 18:00:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,332
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26601817
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OrianDCate/pseuds/OrianDCate
Summary: "Let's play a game..."His eyes flickered to black."Let's Play Murder."Or, a world where the Holmes Brothers took on the roles of the Winchesters in the Apocalypse, and what came after. Angels, demons, consulting detectives, and criminal masterminds. Carry on, my wayward sons.
Relationships: Castiel/Ruby (Supernatural), Mary Morstan/John Watson, Sherlock Holmes/Molly Hooper
Comments: 1
Kudos: 9





	With The Keys To The Cage

I own nothing. Least of all this.

* * *

_“Now some have died,_

_And some are alive,_

_And others sail on the sea._

_With the keys to the cage,_

_And the Devil to pay,_

_We lay to Fiddler’s Green.”_

_\- Hoist The Colors_

* * *

1) WAY DOWN WE GO

The glass slipped from his fingers.

Oh.

_Oh._

_FLASH._

_What did you say?_

_You said John Hamish Watson. You said that. You said, “Hamish”._

_FLASH._

_“This is a famous detective. It’s Sherlock Holmes and his partner, John Hamish Watson.”_

_FLASH._

_How did you know? How did you know his middle name? He never tells anyone. He hates it._

_FLASH._

_“John H. Watson?”_

_“Yep.”_

_FLASH._

_“Henry?”_

_“Shut up.”_

_FLASH._

_“Humphrey?”_

_“Shut. Up.”_

_FLASH._

_“Higgins?”_

_“Go. Away.”_

_FLASH._

_Took him years to confide in me._

_FLASH._

_“That’s my birth certificate.”_

_“Yep.”_

_FLASH._

_And The Woman…she knew._

_FLASH._

_“Hamish. John Hamish Watson. Just if you were looking for baby names.”_

_FLASH._

_God knows where She is._

_Out of my head. I am busy._

_There’s only one time that name’s been made public._

_FLASH._

_“Does it have to be on the invitation?”_

_“It’s traditional.”_

_“It’s funny.”_

_FLASH._

_“Enjoy the wedding.”_

_The wedding. You knew about the wedding. More importantly, you’d seen a wedding invitation. Now, barely a hundred people have seen that invitation. The Mayfly Man only saw five women. For one person to be in both groups…could be a coincidence._

_“Oh, Sherlock. What do we say about coincidence?”_

_The universe is rarely so lazy._

_“So the balance of probability is…?”_

_Someone went to great lengths to find out something about this wedding._

_“What great lengths?”_

_They lied, assumed false identities._

_“Which suggests?”_

_Criminal intent._

_“Also suggests?”_

_Intelligence, planning._

_“Clearly. But more importantly?”_

_The Mayfly Man._

_The Mayfly Man is…_

“…Here today.”

SMASH!

“Oooh, sorry. I…”

“Another glass, sir?”

“Thank you, yes. Thank you, yes.”

_“Something is going to happen. Right here.”_

“Now, where were we?”

_“Could be any second. You have control of the room.”_

“Ah, yes. Raising glasses and standing up. Very good; thank you.”

_“Don’t lose it.”_

“And down again.”

The glass to the table.

“Ladies and gentlemen, people tell you not to milk a good speech; get off early, leave them laughing. Wise advice I’ll certainly try to keep in mind. But for now…”

He jumps.

“…Part two.”

Down the aisle.

“Part two is more…action-based. I’m gonna…walk around, shake things up a bit.

_Mayfly Man?_

“Who’d _go_ to a wedding? That’s the question. Who would bother to go to any lengths to get themselves to a wedding?...Well, _everyone._ Weddings are great! Love a wedding.”

Mary’s lips are ridiculously easy to read. “What’s he doing?”

John’s facial expressions are no harder. “Something’s wrong.”

Good, they’re getting it now.

“And John’s great too! Haven’t said that enough. Barely scratched the surface. I could go on all night about the depth and complexity of his…jumpers…”

Oh yes, he’d picked that word on purpose.

“…And he can cook! Does a…a thing…thing with…peas…once. Might not be peas. Might not be him. But he’s got a great singing voice…or _somebody_ does.”

Too much, it was too much.

“Too many, too many, too many, too _many!”_

_MAYFLY MAN?_

“…Sorry. Too many jokes about John. Now, er…”

_“Criminal intent.”_

“Where was I? Ah, yes…”

_“Extraordinary lengths.”_

“Speech! Speech. Let’s talk about…”

_“All of which is suggestive of…”_

“Murder.”

Oops.

“Sorry, did I say murder? I meant to say marriage, but…you know, they’re quite similar procedures when you think about it. The participants tend to know each other, and it’s over when one of them’s _dead._ In fairness, murder is a lot quicker, though. Janine!”

She starts.

“What about this one? Acceptably hot? More importantly, his girlfriend’s wearing brand-new uncomfortable underwear…and hasn’t bothered to pick this thread off the top of his jacket…or point out the grease smudge on the back of his neck. Currently, he’s going home alone.”

He’s way beyond needing to see the screen to know what he’s typing on the phone behind his back.

_LOCK THIS PLACE DOWN._

“Also, he’s a comics and sci-fi geek. They’re always tremendously grateful…really put the hours in. Geoff, the gents.”

Lestrade doesn’t move.

“The loos, now. Please.”

“It’s _Greg.”_

“The loos, please.”

Ah, there went his phone.

“Why?”

“Oh, I don’t know. Maybe it’s your _turn.”_

Finally, he gets it.

“…Yeah, actually, now you mention it…”

John starts to play along; good, he needs all the time he can get. “Any chance of a…an end date for this speech?”

Translation: he wants to know how much time they have.

“Gotta cut the cake.”

Translation: do you need me to be ready to shoot?

“Oh! Ladies and gentlemen, can’t stand it when _I_ finally get the chance to speak for once.”

He stares directly into John’s eyes. “Vatican Cameos.”

Mary stiffens. “What did he say, what’s that mean?”

“Battle stations. Someone’s gonna die.”

“WHAT?”

_MAYFLY MAN?_

_“Narrow it down.”_

_“ Narrow it down.”_

_“Narrow. It. DOWN.”_

_SLAP!_

“No!”

_SLAP!_

“NO!”

_Not you. NOT. You._

“…You.”

John.

“It’s always you, John Watson. You keep me right.”

“What do I do?”

“Well, you’ve already done it. Don’t solve the murder. _Save the life.”_

Oh, how he’d missed this.

“Sorry. Off-piste a bit. Back now. Phew!”

The thrill of the hunt, the pace of the game.

“Let’s play a game…”

_FLICK!_

Black eyes.

He smiled.

“Let’s Play Murder.”

* * *

_One Year Earlier…_

* * *

So, it had come down to this.

The two greatest minds of their age, both poised to tear each other apart atop a hospital roof, of all places.

Ironic.

He tightened his grip. “Just because I’m on the side of the angels, don’t think for one _second_ that I am one of them.”

That should have been it.

Moriarty should have figured it out, his eyes should have widened in realization.

Instead, he just smiled.

And his eyes changed colors.

“Sherlock, Sherlock, Sherlock, you have no idea how long I’ve waited to hear you say that.”

Moriarty was gone.

And something else was standing in his place.

All he could do was play along.

“…What are you?”

“Oh good, you’re still going. I was afraid the revelation would have shattered your mind; you humans are such a fragile bunch. Even this particular meatbag I just so happen to be wearing. You know, its funny, but in another life, he would’ve been your greatest nemesis. And he would’ve died here, and by his own hand after that little speech you just gave. Instead…”

Moriarty gave a half-shrug.

“Instead, you were stuck with poor Richard Brook, amateur actor and part-time annoyance. Someone that was just _made_ for the occasion.”

_Meatbag._

_Wearing._

_You humans…_

“You’re a demon.”

“Well done! Got there in the end.”

He didn’t stop. “One of the higher ranked ones, judging by the different tint to your eyes. Perhaps one of the original angels that fell with Lucifer. You’re not a recruiter, and you’re certainly not a tormentor; you’re a general. So what are you doing _here?”_

“What else? Looking for my replacement.”

“What, me? Some lowly albeit superbly-intelligent human leading the armies of Hell? Somehow I doubt that very much.”

“But of course! Hell’s legions would never so much as _dream_ of answering to a human general. Much less bowing to a human _king_. So, we’re gonna have to make a few… _changes.”_

_King._

_Not general, King._

_Not a replacement, an upgrade._

_He told me something there, he really shouldn’t have done that…_

“Changes that I started all those years ago, back when you were still just a little boy playing pirates. Remember that night, Sherlock? Remember the _fire?_ The brilliance of it, the _beauty_ of it. That night was just the start.”

_As expected._

_They were somewhat back on script now._

_The next back-and-forth was…_

“If that was the beginning, then I’m not all that anxious to find out what the end is.”

“Oh, don’t worry about that. You’ve got a ways to go before then. But I can tell you for a fact what the middle’s gonna be: you, dragged to Hell, for the sake of your precious _friends.”_

“So…you know.”

“I’m a demon. And not just any demon; a Prince of Hell. Did you really think something like a contract with your name on it would just…slip by me? No, no, no, Sherlock. In the end, I was almost… _disappointed._ Your brother was just _so_ easy to bargain with, all the information you needed to make just exactly the wrong decision. One tube ticket Underground, one year for my best men to take you and turn you into what you need to be. And then you’ll be back; new and improved. And who knows? By then, you might find yourself wishing your friends _had_ died today.”

“I rather doubt it.”

“We’ll see. God’s Righteous Man; in the end all too willing to throw himself down the Pit. Do you get it now, Sherlock? The _symbolism._ The jewels, the trial. The Fall. One way or another, Sherlock… _you were always meant to Fall.”_

“Maybe. Maybe I was. And maybe, in time, I _will_ find myself the leader of your armies. But before then, I feel obligated to point out…you’ve forgotten one very important thing.”

“And that is?”

“I am _not_ a Righteous Man. I’m not even a good one. I’m not a soldier, I’m not a hero. And I’m certainly not an officer.”

He drew.

“I’m a high-functioning sociopath.”

CLICK.

“Give my regards to the Devil.”

BANG!

It truly was a terrible sound. The dying demon, not the gun. Not that guns going off made the particularly best of noises…unless it meant a new case to solve. Then it was one of the best noises in the world.

He was getting sidetracked.

He gently placed the Colt down beside Moriarty’s body. Mycroft would be sure to pick it up later; that was always meant to be part of the plan.

They had known, of course. From the minute the fire blazed into existence; from the minute the first clods of dirt fell onto their parents’ graves. Known that there had been something else in the house with them; something…inhuman. They had both tried for so long to remember, to recall _anything_ about that night…and nothing. For something to have successfully tampered with each of their memories to that degree, with such perfection…it was far beyond anything modern science had accomplished. That was why his brother had gotten involved in places like Baskerville; looking for accomplishments beyond modern science. It was why he himself had turned to a life of deduction, hoping to hone himself to the point that such failures on the part of his mind would never occur again.

They had both dug and searched and dug again, never faltering, never wavering, until finally, they found what had eluded them for oh so long: the ruins of a now defunct secret society, one that had once been England’s only defense against the forces of the supernatural. And in one of their long-deserted bunkers, ravaged by both time and the dark, they had found it. All they needed to know, and more. And the weaponry to put their tormentor to rest for good. If Moriarty’s had been just a bit more thorough in his destruction of the Men of Letters, it would have been nothing more than yet another dead end. But he hadn’t been.

And in the end, they had been granted their revenge.

It had cost him his soul, true, but only for a year. He could hold on for a year…long enough to make it to the end of his contract’s specifications. Once the year was up…he would be back. Maybe not new, but hopefully improved. And while he was gone, Mycroft would be dismantling the remnants of Moriarty’s network. Both criminal, and demonic.

By far the more dangerous job of the two.

But that was Mycroft for you; more than willing to explain the deficiencies of human emotion in great length, all the while harboring the greatest revenge drive Sherlock had ever seen. He had been furious that it was Sherlock who would get to strike the final blow; the least Sherlock could do for him was let him have the rest as compensation.

There were several plans he could now enact; but there was only one that called for Mycroft to focus more on interrogation than eradication. Naturally, it was the plan Mycroft had preferred.

Two little words; just two. To let Mycroft know that there was more at play than they had thought:

_FORTY_TWO._

And then it was time for the finale to be acted out.

Time to draw the curtains, and the show, to a close.

Time…

“Goodbye, John.”

…To Fall.

* * *

John Hamish Watson knelt at the edge of his bed.

It had been alright, for a funeral. Not the kind Sherlock would have wanted.

He would have wanted an air of mystery, of suspense.

Of the unknown.

He’d tried to give him that, at the end. After everyone else had gone.

He’d begged, and pleaded.

Please, Sherlock. Please. For me.

Don’t be…dead.

It hadn’t worked.

Moriarty was dead; that was about the only good new to be had. Mycroft had made it perfectly clear that Sherlock’s sacrifice had been more than worth it, if only to rid the world of such a monster. And that Sherlock himself would have counted it a victory, if he was successful in saving his friends as well.

John had agreed with him.

That hadn’t stopped him from breaking Mycroft’s nose.

He needed…he didn’t know what he needed, actually.

He wasn’t a religious man; he never had been. But today, of all days…he needed something. Anything. Some sign that there was more to this than just Sherlock’s final problem.

And so he prayed.

“Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed…”

For hours, he prayed. Not hoping for a miracle; not hoping for anything, really. Hope was dangerous. In his own medical opinion, he was well into the fourth stage of grief. If he could just get through this, if he could just work this need out of his system…he could begin to move on from depression into…into, well…acceptance.

Sherlock had been a man. No matter how much he sometimes seemed otherwise.

And in the end, there was a debt all men paid.

He sighed, and pulled himself to his feet. Oooh, he was gonna feel that in the morning. Knees not what they used to be.

Supper didn’t sound particularly appealing; with Sherlock around, it was a wonder anyone ever got to eat at normal times. He’d grab a midnight snack if he was awake around then. But for now, all he wanted to do was sleep. Sleep, and let his body process what his mind was too tired to handle.

He was out before he hit the bed.

* * *

“John Hamish Watson.”

He jerked around. There was only one person he ever let call him that. “…Sherlock?”

“I’m afraid not.”

The man standing there couldn’t have looked any more like an accountant. Trench coat, suit and tie, well-shaved. He was surprised he didn’t have a briefcase with him. “Who are you?”

“My name is Castiel, and I’m an angel of the Lord.”

“…I’m dreaming.”

“Yes.”

“You’re not real.”

The accountant (slash angel) tilted his head. “Why would you think that?”

“Because I just spent hours on the cold, hard floor praying my soul out trying to get my best friend back. You’re just the representation of that, plus my guilt, come back to bother me.”

“A very neat deduction. Your friend would have been proud. But unfortunately, you are in the wrong. I am exactly what I say I am; an angel of the Lord. And I have been sent to answer your prayer.”

“…And just why have you decided the best point to finally answer me was after I actually stopped trying?”

“You haven’t. Not really. It is a fact of the universe that John Hamish Watson doesn’t give up.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“Don’t call you what?”

“Hamish. Only Sherlock gets to use that name.”

“…I see. I shall refrain from using it then. But to answer your question: the reason I am limited to visiting your dreams is quite simple. This is not my physical form.”

John snorted. “Go on.”

The angel seemed to miss his sarcasm entirely. “I shall. My true form is approximately the size of your Chrysler Building. If you were to look upon it, your eyes would be burned out of your skull. And if I were to speak to you in my normal voice, your eardrums would rupture from the volume.”

“…Well that sounds unpleasant.”

“So I am told. To avoid either of those possibilities, I have been instructed to only approach you while you are asleep.”

“Okay, leaving aside the whole stalker-y feel that sentence gave off, you said instructed? Who instructed you?”

“My superiors in the Heavenly Host.”

“Hmm. Superiors. I didn’t think I was that important.”

“In the grand scheme of things, perhaps not. But to Sherlock Holmes? You are one of the most important things in the world. And that makes you important to us by default.”

“If Sherlock was that important to you lot, then WHY THE HELL DIDN’T YOU SAVE HIM?”

“…You must understand, John Watson. We are often limited by the simple fact that in most cases, for us to interfere, we have to be specifically directed. Or, in the case of prayers, called. The simple reason we could not interfere was that no one involved ever spared a single thought towards our assistance. If even one person had stopped and prayed as you have done, I have no doubt we would have been able to save your friend. But as it is, now is the time we have been called. And we are prepared to help.”

He was right; hope really was the most dangerous thing in existence. “…How?”

“The…circumstances…surrounding your friend’s death are somewhat restrictive; I’m afraid we will be somewhat slowed by them. I estimate that it will take a year of work on the other side to free your friend and return him. If we were allowed to take on physical form, we could perhaps work faster…”

“Could you? Take on physical form?”

“Not unless we wished to be noticed immediately. As you can imagine, our forms are not the most…stealthy…of bodies. The only way for us to gain both sets of advantages is to possess a willing human, one who gives free permission to the angel to use him as a vessel for the duration.”

“Do it.”

“…I beg your pardon?”

“You say you need a physical form; take mine.”

“John…you must understand…if I were to take control of your body, and use it to effect your friend’s release…you would remember nothing of it. You were never meant to remember this conversation; your mind would burn should you attempt to comprehend it.”

“I won’t comprehend it, then. Lets get on with it.”

“John…are you sure? You would be forced to go about your normal life during the day, never knowing what our true purpose was. The Enemy is watching you, John Watson. If so much as a detail was out of place, if your grief seemed even a fraction less genuine…they might suspect something. And then it would all be for naught.”

“…You said a year, yes?”

“Sooner, if we can manage it. Time here runs…slower…than over there. A year here is closer to forty on the other side.”

Forty years.

Sherlock would be dead for what felt like forty years.

Too long.

“It’s a deal.”

“…Very well. If all else fails, then I shall see you in a year’s time, John Watson.”

Their hands shook.

“…Save him, Castiel.”

“I intend to.”


End file.
